


The Unkindness Have Forgotten How to Sing

by bootmcjagr



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: ...Really Only Affects the MC, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Bird/Human Hybrids, Blood and Violence, Character Study, Gen, Graphic Depictions of War, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hades Does Not Care, Let’s Appreciate How Amazing Grim Is, Magic, Mentions of Suicide, Nyctophobia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RPG Inspiration/References, The Other Six Want Him to Shut Up, The Protagonist Has Magic, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27358465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bootmcjagr/pseuds/bootmcjagr
Summary: ‘It’s for me. For them.’But before she could do anything, the rampage dissipated into still silence. Lost into the abyss. She glances back to the mirror, and in it was her damaged reflection; the jaded fires parted.‘For you.’Then her wavering reflection drifted away. Now replaced by a hand. It's gaunt, ashen fingers enticingly extend towards her, quirked expediently for her own. Like it knows she'll never deny it. And she didn't, she’s not sure she even had courage to do so—because, without realizing, she reached back.‘We are all running out of time. So, no matter what, never let go of my hand.’She doesn't, and from what felt like the grip of many, pulled her forward.❦A young girl, belonging to a long lost race, awakens in an unfamiliar world named Twisted Wonderland. With no memories of herself, and stuck in a prestigious school of magic named Night Raven College; she attempts to discover her past while facing the many malicious students contained in Night Raven’s walls. Her only guide, the seven voices inside her head.𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬| 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
Relationships: Dire Crowley & Yuu | Player, Grim & Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland) & Everyone, Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland) & The Ghosts | Ezra Beane | Pro. Phineas Plump | Gus, Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland) & The Great Seven
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	The Unkindness Have Forgotten How to Sing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [“Smile Now, Dear. It’s Sunrise.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540788) by [HummingSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HummingSparrow/pseuds/HummingSparrow). 



> 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫:  
> So let me first start off with this: I want to thank HummingSparrow and writingerror for getting me into this fandom. I don’t know these two lovely writers personally, but their work has left a big affect in me joining this fandom. And I’m so glad that I did. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by HummingSparrow’s Great Seven AU, which I thought was an amazing and interesting new Universe to explore. So I wanted to create my own version of it. That said, I 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 create the Great Seven AU. So recommend you check out their work “"Smile Now, Dear. It’s Sunrise”” for yourself, first. And while we’re talking about it, please also check out writingerror’s “Yuu and the Power of Magic.” 
> 
> Secondly, 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐰𝐧 Twisted Wonderland or it’s characters. All rights belong to both Aniplex and Disney Japan. Most of the content written will be following canon, however, will have my own interpretations of character backgrounds, magic, and world lore for the plot (so canon divergence lol). I want to explore Twisted Wonderland’s characters and setting, while staying as true to it’s original storyline as much as possible. Since I’m not well-versed or knowledgeable in Japanese, some script choices may change since I’m heavily relying on interrupters. Meaning their may also be possible edit changes in the future. Any made references of companies, brands, shows, music, or licensed product will have a slightly altered names to fit the environment of the story.
> 
> Thirdly, this story will delve into uncomfortable and adult topics that are not suitable for all readers. Any triggering subjects made within the chapter will be warned before starting, and added to the tags. More heavy subjects will also be given summaries on the end notes for readers who still want to enjoy the story, but don’t want to delve too far into those topics. 
> 
> A few warnings for this chapter include: Mentions of Suicide. Mentions of War. Minor Violence.
> 
> ❦ | 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬’ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 | ❦

She inhales the earthy scent of petrichor that's carried in the breeze; the promise of rain is a sweet relish. She watches, perched atop the northern cliffsides, as trees and greenery sweep the fields with their clothes of oranges and yellows.Their leaves dance amongst the wind and damp soils. It's one of the few places nowadays that hasn’t been caught by the growing smoke and decay; a small oasis hiding in a corrupted miasma. It's too bad that it may possibly perish along with many of it’s other woodland brothers. The evergreens and oaks best served as obstacles against four-legged beasts or artillery, and the bright foliage safely screens the lives of hidden troops who've already perverted the lands with snares and runes. These vivacious forests had once been preserved for all life in Prydain. The capital’s castle that towers a few hours away is landmark of that age. 

It can't be helped. 

But she prays for a day in which, instead of seeing soldiers drilled, children could mindlessly run about and play on these forests again. Instead of reuniting as allies in war, different races can merge as neighbors, friends, or family. She hopes, someday, she can call the spirits alone without having to worry for the drolling undead, glutton men, or mindless monsters. She hopes to see a day where she'll never again witness the flow of thick, black ichor oozing from the orifices of a gasping victim. She wants to create a future in which they’ll live on in peace. And maybe, by next week, when they teleport to begin their surprise assault, that future can bloom forth. 

She sighs and lets her body fall on the wild waves of grass, folding her arms under her head, eyes closed. The sound of metal scratching dirt shrills from her waist. It’s her dagger and flintlock, currently sheath close to her hip. Usually, she has her magic to secure her, but having the security of a blade or artillery is always welcomed. Though, it’s offputting how accustomed she’s become with their proximity. Only ten minutes passed when the pounding of beating wings approached, followed by a rush of wind, which startled her hair and the grass. When she stresses her neck to look behind, the lone figure of a lean, dark-haired boy settles in, a single onyx feather silently drifting past his nose. 

She grins, "Hey."

"Hey," he retorts, his own worn smile stretched upon his sallow face. 

She looks away to gaze up at the ashen sky. Watching a rolling party of dark clouds emerging. It doesn't take the boy long for him to reach and sit with her, cross legged, and hands draped over his knees as he chooses to admire the warm haven below instead. Though his black jerkin and red cloths mask his efforts, on the end of his wrist, she could spot the crevice of a burn mark peeking from his cuff. The sunken skin painfully contrasted with the rest of him, scarred periwinkle and healthy beige mixing harshly. She knows how much he hates barring them in the open, so she politely swivels her glance back to the clouds. However, she's no different. She's sure if she peeled her own vest and shirt, a variation of inflammation, bruising, and slashes would parade her back...

"Anything yet?” he questions.

"No," she mumbles, a bit irritated that he'd ask. It's been weeks now since her last session. And since then, she's attempted to reach for the spirits, only to receive silence. Usually, she wouldn't force these events—letting the peace of sleep or meditation work it out—but with each day rapidly approaching, she couldn't help seeking guidance. It was common for her to get fleeting glimpses of a future or warnings of possible dangers. It's what's kept her, her brother, and the others alive. Yet, nothing. Not an image, sound, feeling, or whisper poked up. Though it's been years since they last spoke in words, so she doubts they'd converse with her now. But it was still a small comfort knowing their presence guards her. So she wishes for something, _anything_ , to quiet the growling dread shifting in her gut. 

The boy, her only older brother, looks at her with concern swirling in his caramel gaze, "I'm sure it means nothing. I mean—if there's nothing to say, then there's nothing important to report. Right?" 

He draws a toothy smile, but she still notices how he grits his teeth. 

"I guess," she replies flatly. 

His smile drops, flattening into a thin, pursed frown before the boy drifts his view back to the forest. He looks tired. His shoulders hung limp, all energy exhausted. While a layer of grease sheened his ebony roots, hair lazily tied to a knot, which helped display the deep bags creasing under his eyes. Grime and grass sullied the heel of his preachers, while crusts of sweat sear his skin. Even strokes of hair have begun to grow on his lower face, infinitely aging his once boyish features. It's a sight that hurts, a needle of guilt that burrows further into her heart. She wishes she had the spirit to console him as he would for her, but she doesn't. Never did. She was always the tactician, never the leader. So she anxiously lays underneath the raging clouds, dirty, tired, and sweaty. Finally, he releases a long sigh, then dramatically flops to the floor along with her, arms stretched. 

"Alright, no bullshit. The outcome might not be great; there's a chance we'll lose men—probably a lotta them. Maybe we make an error. Maybe the son of a bitch is two steps ahead of our attacks. And maybe all this effort blows up in our faces, then we become the next sad group of zombified soldiers.

She tries not to squirm, yet the faint trembling in her fingers ruins it, "But there's also just as much of a chance that we’ll succeed and prove our efforts weren't for nothing." 

"How can you be so sure?" the realist in her asks, never able to be satisfied even with a bit of false optimism. 

"I can't," warmth slipped to her hand, and she watched as five broad fingers splay and spread between her own. They felt like worn leather, rough, and raw. Yet the gluey, clammy texture of his palm and the coarseness of his skin's own blisters and calluses are still warm. "But I can still hope." 

When she turns to look at him, she sees he's peering back with a strange look. A sober grin crinkles the corner of his cheeks and pinches his nostril. While his thin brows quirk up, further stressing the faint lines on his forehead. Even his eyes are pensive, glistening—glazed with fresh pools of unspilled tears. It's an honest look of admission and content. Like her, his eyes are mostly a bright iris without a pupil. Many have told the siblings that it looks unnerving. It's unnatural quality matching that of a barn owl on the hunt: Vigilant. Aware of your mistake before you are. 

Sometimes, when she gets the opportunity to look at her reflection, she takes the time to examine her golden gaze and meets this predator. Even sees it in her brother occasionally. But at this moment, no one can deny the humility watering this boy’s eyes. She almost began to weep her sentiments along with him, but she instead sniffled. Then tilted her hand to gently circle his knuckles with her thumb. 

"You understand he might never forgive us for this," she says. 

"I know."

"And you're okay with that?" 

"Better me than him out here," he answers swiftly. Voice a little nasally. 

She'd have to disagree. Neither should have to witness the horrors that await them. But she nods anyway, accepting the answer as she stares down at their, almost, interwoven hold. Then his hand lets go of her own and she follows how it drifts up, slowly reaching till it finds her hair. Pinching a section of the black curls between his thumb and index.

He lets out a watery chuckle, "Say... when this is over with, and we finally have our lives free to ourselves," it takes all her effort not to scoff at his phrasing, bemused, "I think you should grow out your hair." 

Her hair? It's been _years_ since that thought crossed by her. When she was only a child, she used to carry a cascade of loose dark locks and would beg on the daily for her brother to liven it up with a set of two pretty, long braids. If it did not appeal to her, she'd yowl and coax her brother to fix them until they were perfect. But now, she'd just hacks and shreds the matted tresses till they were above her ears. Long hair is too much of bother to take care of. It is neither efficient or beneficial if you’re not looking to keep appearances. But those younger years of her life held treasured memories that still brought the best kind of nostalgia.

She playfully bats her brother's hand away and then sits up, stretching her hand to pinch at the delicate skin of his cheek, "Why? So you can use me as practice? You won't find a lover just by knowing how to braid, dumbass." 

"Ow! Quit it, that shit hurts!" he howls. Attempting to slap her hand while trying to maneuver his head away from her reach. 

"Then don't be dumb," she said nonchalantly, retreating her attack. _For now_. 

"But I'm serious," he laughs, cushioning his head back onto the grass. He then waves his hand in the air, like he's putting a prize on an auction. "Imagine. The three of us settling in the countryside in our warm, comfy cabin—" 

"A cabin?" she smirks, brow raised questionably. 

"Yes, a cabin—then we purchase an acre of land to plant our garden and cattle."

"Not sure how he'll feel about caring for cows or chickens. But if you introduce a promise of planting tomatoes, then _maybe_ he’ll settle down," she adds to his childish fantasies. 

"Okay, fine. We're growing tomatoes," he defeatedly admits, before buoyantly jumping back to his babble. "But once we've collected the money, I promise, the first thing I'll purchase is a quality summer dress, just for you." 

Reality lashes at her that that's a pipe dream that'd 've taken years to establish. That she shouldn't fall for its luster since, _if_ they did survive, they'd first have to think about the plans for reconstruction that comes after. That there are _enslaved_ children and loved ones waiting to be freed and reunited with their families. But, just for the moment, she gathers her knees to her chest and savors the delusion; watching the winds wistfully caress the trees of the forest. 

"I'd like that," she whispers, smiling. But dread began to rehook their claws when she turned to expect her starry-eyed brother. But saw nothing but an empty, continuous void. She jumped up, whirling about to find the forest, the cliff sides, _her_ _brother_. Yet the vacancy swallows the world she was reliving, draping everything with hollow darkness once more. 

She cups her mouth, desperate, "Brother? Brother?! Goddammit—”she growls under her breath, frantic, “Please, please, _please_ don't do this to me. Don’t end it just yet!" she bewails. 

But it seems the void even drained all of nature's natural sounds since only her panicked cry can be heard echoing into the abyss. Her body felt _heavy_. Maybe it was the giddiness fogging her brain or nausea weighing in her stomach, but when she looks at herself, it seems to be more than that. Armor plating dresses her legs and abdomen again. Rust invades the joints while the metal is pounded in with indentions or slices; spatters of old blood and dirt smear its contents, secreting a rancid smell of spoiled meat and smoke. The gauntlets on her wrists struggle to keep hold, the leather strapping thinned and fading. Instead of short tresses, her hair now drops to her knees, frayed, and rumpled. Only the dagger and flintlock sitting on her hip seems to be in decent condition.

She's back here, and she didn't even have a chance to say goodbye that time. 

It always begins and ends like that, though. An old memory would flourish to life and play out from what she can remember. Then she'd join the cruel act for as long as it lasted. Sometimes it felt like it stayed a few minutes, other times, weeks. And she'd forget all about the cold vacancy until reality rips her a new one and takes her dollhouse away. No longer can she distinguish the time passing playing in her dark prison. Its significance had dissolved along with the rest of her. 

She’s tried to run away—multiple times in fact. But all escape attempts ended with frustration and exhaustion. Including death. Whatever force that keeps her here wouldn't let her die. She's tried several extravagant suicides. Some unique, like drinking liquor until its imaginative poison consumes her. Others were as subtle as a gun to the temple. But the results were the same. Either she was too weak to follow through, or she awoke in the abyss, no new damage done. So all she could do is tread through the darkness until the next lapse of memories. 

It makes sense why the spirits wouldn't respond to her call earlier. It's because they already abandoned her long ago.

It’s cruel. It’s ruthless. It’s dreading. It’s _painful_.

But the one thing it wasn't was unfair—that's what made it hurt worse.

Her knees buckle and fall roughly to the ground. The flooring splattering from the impact before settling into a methodical ripple. It looked like oil. Yet it doesn't seep into her clothing. Doesn't tarnish the silver of her plating. Doesn't even drip between her palms as oil would, and she _hates_ it. Hates it so much that her face squashes into a vile, strident snarl. Hates it so much that she repeatedly bashes against it with tight fists. Hates it so much that she shrieks and cries till her throat is dried raw, senselessly clawing and hitting like a rabid wolf who vigorously tears at the gore of its meal. It wasn't till her gauntlet straps snapped from the force did she stop to watch it carelessly slip from the grasp of her palm, and clatter onto the floor. 

She paused, only moving to take raspy breaths. Then shakily, she raises her bare hand and stares. The nails are chipped and torn, flecks of muck hoveled deep into the skin. By the corners, edges of pink were pronounced and dirtied by crusts of carnage. While the collections of old calluses and frazzle flesh have torn away at the palm's surface, hardening the texture. She ran a thumb across the ridges of jagged tissue, driving pressure wherever it aches.

Every scab, blister or wound she prodded surges a new flush of warmth that itches her eyes. Her shoulder blade throbs, shivering from unexpelled magic. While a mournful hiccup rattles her lungs. She was desperate to cling to something, so pulled at her hair. It's tangled strings snagging from the ripping. Moisture blurred her sight as she worked to blink it away. However, it only spurred the tears to well up quicker, swallowing back a whimper that peaked from her voice. She dug her nails deeper into her scalp, tearing apart the breaking strands. Finally, a hysterical cry erupts from her throat, shoulders wracking from its sob as her chest rises and falls irregularly, choking for a breath. Eyes squeezed shut, she scrambles to wipe the spilling streams with the back of her wrist. But it didn't dwindle her despairing cries or her violent tremors.

From behind, a feverish warmth swells from her spine, flushing her back with its immense heat, the magic sweltering. She can feel the friction of her sprouting feathers severing the cotton in her shirt and shifting aside metal. Muscle and plumage extending from her back, morphing till two crumbled, ebony wings fidget and coil protectively around her shivering form. Extruding from the wings' forearms are a pair of squirming five-digit claws, their broad spindly fingers' twisting closer to her body. She reaches out to one, tenderly placing her smaller palm atop of its colder wrist. Unlike the rest of the appendage's frail crooked feathering, the claws feel coarse, scaly. It's dark film prickling her tender flesh. She attempts to flex the talons but _keens_ from a jolting twinge in her muscles. 

So she simply lets her quivering hand rest over the claw and imagines it is her brother's palm, comforting her. That the cold licking her fingers is instead a soft warmth. That the scales are replaced with rough flesh. That somewhere close by, a boy is smiling down at her. It's pitiful that her own loneliness has to develop fake mirages to keep her sane. It's like a fallen hatchling chirping for their mother, ignorant that it'll never return to the nest alive. But she's too tired to be ashamed. Exhausted by this repetitive sequence of hope and disappointment. Drained of any strength to get up, then roam about in this inky chasm for the thousandth time. Tired of it raining. 

"But how much of this is from my own doing…?" she croaks, broken.   
  


_Ah, my dear beloved Princess, you're indeed a lovely and noble flower of evil. Truly the most beautiful of them all._

She thought for a moment that insanity had _finally_ consumed her mind. But when she enfolded her wings, she spotted a mirror looming close. She jumped back, crouched, unsure of this new development. The mirror towered above her hunched figure. Its ovular frame molded into the shape of two curled snakes flashing their fanged maws, unperturbed. Was this another deranged memory? Or was she correct before that her psyche was taunting her with non-existent images? Suddenly, a body of emerald flames erupts within the glass, filling the area with its wrathful viridian glow. 

_Does your heart not desire the salvation of freedom, dear Campanula?_

Carefully, she rises from her haunches and stalks closer to the mirror. Though suspicious of its appearance, she couldn't help but revere in the fire's bizarre hue, it's embers eerily leaping behind its glass container hungrily. Never had she seen a mirror like this—or at least couldn't remember seeing one. Even the tone of the silvery voice reverberating in her skull didn't ring any familiarity. So it likely being a recreated memory isn't too plausible. Though the powers of the abyss is still a mystery to her. There is also a good possibility this is a trap from that damn lich—soul still lingering. Yet, she still _wishes_ to trust this new mystical entity. Whether it's out of desperation or genuine faith, she couldn't say. She wonders how disappointed Angharad would be of these careless wants. But she still gingerly extends towards the glass, tapping it. 

For some reason, she expected it'd burn her. But it's surface simply cooly tickled her skin. 

"And how would you help me—or-or why for that matter?" she mumbles, conflicted. Because, _again_ , paranoia couldn't be satisfied even with the smallest acts of kindness. Sometimes she wonders if she has some sort of sick, masochistic tendencies or she’s just dull. Either way, the mirror spoke with a calm urgency, its hitch close to soothing. 

_If you let yourself go and take my hand, then the darkness shall guide us to a new tomorrow. But for my reasons, well..._

An ear-splitting roar shudders the world around; it's ghoulish howl resounding against her heart. Almost breaking her balance as she fumbles to set her footing again. When she does, she could hardly move, fear evaporating all peace left in her muscles, her wings puffed up, unnerved. It takes all her will to stiffly creak her head around to greet this new vile beast. 

And what she sees next is the sight of a bloodied, losing battle. A monster made up of flames and teeth advanced forward to a group of robed, young men. Its shape resembles that of a manticore; its mane a torrent of livid, blue flames that crackle dangerously. While the body is squared and muscular; slate fur prickling from dark magic. It's snake-like tails slap away an unsuspecting group of kneeling, wounded boys like flies. Their bodies pitifully flying and dropping on the hard floors with a cracking _thump_ . Some try to sluggishly retaliate. But are dismissed by a sweeping, broad claw. There are even boys who scream and scramble for their escape, fear spiraling behind their eyes. One of the unlucky few fell, and as consequence, was mashed under merciless claws. These were inexperienced children stranded in a life-or-death struggle, and they're slipping away _fast_.

_It’s for me. For them._

But before she could do _anything_ , the rampage dissipated into still silence. Lost into the abyss. She glances back to the mirror, and in it was her damaged reflection; the jaded fires parted.   
  


_For you_. 

Soon, the clap of trotting hoofs bellowed from the darkness. The excited _neighing_ of horses tickles her ears. Then her wavering reflection drifted away. Now replaced by a hand. It's gaunt, ashen fingers enticingly extend towards her, quirked expediently for her own. Like it knows she'll never deny it. And she didn't, she’s not sure she even had courage to do so—because, without realizing, she reached back. 

_We are all running out of time. So, no matter what, never let go of my hand_.  
  


She doesn't, and, from what felt like the grip of many, it pulled her forward

**Author's Note:**

> 𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲  
> Campanula:  
> \- A plant genera of over 300 species, it’s a Latin word that literally means ‘little bell,’ but is most referred to as Bellflowers. Growing various cooler shades like blue, purple, pink, and white, the flowers commonly represent gratitude, modesty, attractiveness, everlasting love, and even death—for they have a prominent role in cemeteries. The Campanula’s most famous species are Bluebells/Harebells, their cultural significance diverging in different countries. Scotland believed that witches would form into hares and hide among the flowers, while Victorians used them in bouquets to communicate feelings of humility. There are even myths of the Bluebells used to call fairies by ringing it like a bell, while others think a Bluebells’ ring is a warning that someone closer to you has died. Many farmers say most Bellflowers are easy to grow, but stress that species like the Rampion Bellflower can be invasive.
> 
> — ❦ —
> 
> 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠:  
> Tales of Vesperia - The Full Moon and the Morning Star:  
> \- Original Composer: Motoi Sakuraba and Hibiki Aoyama
> 
> — ❦ —
> 
> Theories and criticism are always welcomed. Stay tune for more~!
> 
> [Edited 2/28/21]


End file.
